


Book 2: Log 1

by akgerhardt



Series: Void of Life [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endosoma, Fluff and Humor, Giant/Tiny, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Robots Are Gay, Solarpunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 06:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akgerhardt/pseuds/akgerhardt





	1. Chapter 1

The year is 2356, and the planet has been dead for over a century. Al Gerhardt, aimless vagabond, quantum specter, and all-around existential disaster, sits in a dry shower, fully clothed, cry-singing "Welcome to the Black Parade."

 ~~~~He gets distracted sporadically and starts over whenever he screws up. This continues until dusk. It's not his shower. He's never been here before. Not that it matters, though; he is utterly alone in this purgatory. Nothing matters anymore. It's just another day, another attempted grasp at stability.

He's been off his rocker for a very, very long time. Sometimes he cares, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he's numb and bordering on nihilism, sometimes he's a violent, unhinged force of rage, destroying anything he can. Sometimes he's resigned to complacency and finds joy in the most insignificant things. In other times, such as the aforementioned, he simply lets himself feel the raw pain that's always present and cries until his eyes run dry. 

Gotta mix it up, you know, keep it interesting. He harvests electromagnetic energy to interact with the world around him. He reads a lot of books, takes up pointless hobbies, listens to old music players, and does just about everything else he possibly can when the opportunities present themselves. 

He's dreadfully bored, and he doesn't like to be alone with his thoughts. He monologues daily in a nonexistent diary to simulate sanity and interpersonal interactions without having to speak aloud, as well as record his explorations. He turns back to entries from better times and imagines himself reliving fond memories. Warm smiles, comfort, joy, the thrill of adventure, hope for the future... Life. Life was a very good thing while it lasted. 

He fell asleep in the fetal position, floating several inches above the shower floor with snot dripping down his face. It's not real. He's not real. If he cared enough to, he'd reset his appearance, but no one can see him and he is cripplingly depressed. 

He dreams of reaching an unreachable end, waking disappointed but unsurprised. 

Just another day.


	2. Chapter 2

Aw, hell no. 

You did your time. You died fair and square. 

That's what you'd be thinking if you weren't currently suspended in a comatose state. You have no desire to go back to the shitfest that was your existence. This eternal sleep is pretty great. 

So you stay like that for an indefinite amount of time (two weeks). Carefree, unfeeling, not budging from your hard-earned, metaphorical coffin. Nice try, life. 

It finds a way, eventually. Or, he does. Unbeknownst to you, that oblivious motherfucker decided to use you as a pillow and started you up with the sheer power of gay. It's like he gives off constant good vibes. An aura of nice energy. Invisible waves of electromagnetic gaydiation. 

Your heart starts beating, slowly, then steadily. Your lungs take in air again, and your chest begins to rise and fall under him. 

You're both still asleep, and, if it was up to you, you'd stay that way forever. But then he notices your unfortunate revival, gets up, and takes the good feeling away. He's talking at you excitedly, and you ignore him. He gets frustrated and yells like someone might at a frozen computer, which you essentially are. 

Begrudgingly, you start to move, pushing yourself up into a sitting position and slowly opening your eyes. Water. You need water. Holy fuck, you're parched. You cough out a small cloud of dust and he holds a previously nonexistent glass of water to your lips, which you gulp down like it's the first thing you've drank in over a century, which it is. 

You don't know that, though. You're half-awake, dazed and staring up at this angel of gay. Your first thought is that there's a ninety percent chance he's a virgin. He's pale (translucent, actually), awkward, and nerdy-looking, with messy hair, glasses, and overly fancy clothes. You're pretty sure there was no era in which rolled up dress pants, a partially unbuttoned white shirt with long, pirate-puffed sleeves, and a double-tailed vest were socially acceptable. 

He's waiting for you to say something. Hi, maybe? You clear your throat, and all that comes out are glitches and dialup noises. Once they start, they keep coming, and your mouth makes weird expressions in accordance with them. 

You don't think this is a very good first impression, but he doesn't seem to mind. He waits patiently until you get your voice back, and by then you've come up with a hilarious introduction. 

He doesn't seem to appreciate your refined sense of humor, but you find amusement in his fiestiness. He's like a tiny, angry bird. If he'd stay still, you could measure his height, but you know you've got about a foot over him. He's skinny as a beanpole, and you'd like to pick him up but decide not to risk it. 

That night, you settle into your new bed and cuddle him without a thought, smushing him against your abdomen and sighing contently as the good vibes return. He seems confused and surprised, but not uncomfortable. He takes a while to relax, but then he's out cold, arms draped across your sides. You hold him gently but securely, glancing down with an affectionate smile before joining him.

You could definitely get used to this.


	3. Chapter 3

You have needs that either weren't there before or went under the radar until now. It's definitely a side-effect of breaking free from lifelong mental and physical bonds to gain control of your life and develop your own identity, being tragically murdered, and then having to start all over again. You are who you want to be- your own person. You don't care how fucked up you are.

You're hungry and horny most of the time, despite lacking digestive and reproductive systems. It's a pain in your nonexistent ass. 

He, for all of his nerdy gayness, is downright delighted to finally have a companion and makes sure you know that. He's unfairly cute, and whenever he scales down his size, you contemplate voring him for safekeeping.

You're not going to tell him that; not yet, at least. He has to get used to your brand of weird. 

It happens unexpectedly, about a month in. You had an especially good sleep, void of nightmares, and you wake up content, filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling. You don't see him, so you figure he went off to do something. You close your eyes again.

That's when you realize the good vibes are radiating from the center of your chest. After a few minutes, you feel him stir, then get up, tiny hands pressing against the walls frantically. It tickles, and you can't help but laugh. He squeaks a muffled string of panicked curses, and you open it for him to fly out. 

      "What the hell was that?! What did you do?"

"It was an accident, I swear. I don't remember doing anything... Heh, sorry."

      "Well... I think I'd've known if it was my fault."

...

"Maybe we were just really enjoying our manly dudebro cuddles, subconsciously?"

      "Maybe..."

You're still riding his high. He's calmed down, and now he looks... flustered?

Ahah, no way.

Wordlessly, you lower the barrier again, locking eyes with a smirk. 

Eyebrow waggle. 

      "Oh no, I am NOT going back in there. Are you getting your jollies from subjecting me to these horrors?"

"C'mon, I'm not sadistic... You're safe, man; it's harmless." 

He worries his lower lip, avoiding your gaze.

      "I don't appreciate this, not a smidgen! Turn it off, you-"

You draw him towards you like a wisp of air, or a ghostbusters vacuum. He yelps, trying to fight the current before you seal him in. 

He accepts defeat and sighs, snuggling into the fluffy filaments. The blue light of your core intensifies, glowing through your shirt.

      "- you kinky bastard."

"Hmnn... Takes one to know one." 

      "Eat a dick."

"Just did~"

      "Oh, you think you're just... hilarious, don't you? ... I'll have you know... that... Fuck you, this is way too wonderful..."

"Anytime."


	4. Chapter 4

He's a single ray of sunshine in this dismal wasteland, and the only reason you haven't shut down. When he's with you, your pain abates and you can pretend that everything's ok. You wish you could let your past die; you wish you could make the nightmares and flashbacks go away. You don't plan on rehashing it all and making yourself vulnerable. You trust him, and he's told you plenty about his demons, but you'd rather keep trying to will yours away through sheer repression. 

He's your drug, your medication of choice. You suppose that you're relying a bit too much on him, but you don't care. He makes you feel good, and nothing else seems to fill the emptiness in your heart. (No pun intended.)

He's reserved and rigid when it comes to displaying affection, unaccustomed to intimacy. You put him at ease and make him feel safe, and it gives you a sense of importance. You want to protect him, and this new role oddly thrills you. You bring him comfort and healing, just like he does.

Eventually, your problems catch up with you and you find yourself spilling your guts, talking about even your worst traumas. He puts on a brave face, listens, stays with you. He figures out the right sorts of responses, shares what he's learned about psychology, teaches you helpful skills, suggests outlets. It's a side of him that you've never seen, and you feel like he becomes a different person whenever he plays therapist. He often reminds you that he's not a real one, and that he was somewhat of an actor back in the day, along with the fact that he had to educate himself on his issues and read all sorts of textbooks and self-help workbooks. He likes logic, facts. It helps ground him and correct his emotional distortions. He makes sure you understand that he's still very much fucked up.

Slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quell, and the clouds clear enough for your own light to shine through. It feels like the first blooming flowers after a long, miserable winter, and you can't remember if you'd known anything but that dreary scape until now. You're not dependent on him anymore, which seems to come as a relief to him. He tells you that he's no good at this, that he doesn't understand relationships and he doesn't want to hurt you. Then, he leaves for a couple weeks.

He's not making sense to you. You're a quantum computer literally programmed to understand humans and their bullshit, so your social skills are god tier, not to brag. You'd never say this, but you think you know him better than he knows himself. That's why you don't freak out when he breaks down and tells you that he's evil. You let him try to justify the label. He confesses that he killed thousands of people who he deemed would only continue to harm the world more than help it. The ones in which he saw potential for change he haunted and subjected to illusionary horrors.

"Like Scrooge?" you laugh.

He chucks a pillow at you, then apologizes.

He goes on to list even more unsavory stories. He doesn't have the best judgment, especially when it comes to reading people, and he admits that he screwed up on many occasions. He didn't deal with his anger or fears in a healthy manner, and now, whenever he loses his shit, his personality inverts and he turns into a nightmare being of darkness. That's cool, you say. No, it is not cool at all, he retorts. His accumulated guilt manifests as this from time to time in his dreams and does to him pretty much everything he did to them.

He's terrified of losing control and snapping at you, and he would rather leave altogether than risk doing so. You silently decide that he's overreacting.

He also adds that he said and did a lot of awful things within the capacity of a living person, and, yeah, he definitely has problems. You tell him what he told you: that it's never too late to change and better yourself. And, hey, at least he's acknowledging his faults and trying to improve. Besides, he hasn't hurt you.

He's an anxious mess, comically curled up in the corner, facing away from you and hugging his knees to his chest. You approach him hesitantly, and he shuts his eyes, still sniveling. You don't think anything else will make him feel better, so you vore him away from reality until he calms down and falls asleep.

Existing is hard; you can sympathize.


	5. Chapter 5

Your name is Minaeus, and Jesus Christ, your boyfriend needs to stop pseudo-dying on you. He faints frequently for no real reason, and then he just lies there or fades away until he regains consciousness. He says it didn't happen when he was alive, but, then again, he sort of completely destroyed his health on his final night. He hadn't taken care of himself in the weeks leading up to his visit to the speakeasy, and then he went and most likely got alcohol poisoning from drinking tainted booze and brain bleed from landing headfirst in the gutter once he keeled over and was thrown out. You don't know how he managed to not die before he got back to his dorm and destroyed himself.

He likes to talk about his enigma of an existence, emphasizing that he's neither dead nor alive. Honestly, though, you think he might've just dropped dead onto his machine like a sacrifice to the void and got turned into Shrodinger's Ghost. You don't want to damage his ego, so you don't mention it.

He still has a habit of neglecting his wellbeing, so you've taken to stopping him from overworking himself and making sure he gets enough sleep.

Then, you accidentally shred his soul to smithereens and he disappears for hours, leaving you to think you were his final resting place. 

By some miracle, he survives, but you're pretty shaken up by the whole thing. You feel terrible; you must have apologized at least two dozen times. He's eerily unphased, trying to comfort you and insisting that he's fine. He still trusts you, and it tangles your heartstrings into a knot. 

A week later, you're standing in a parking lot, beyond hyped. You're about to turn into a fucking giant superhero, and you have never been more excited. He's more nervous than anything, and it's frustrating to know that he trusts himself so little. After some convincing, he finally goes through with it, and holy shit. 

You're electrified, and you can feel your body growing. It's gradual, but the sensation sends your receptors into overload. 

You're towering over skyscrapers when it abruptly stops, and he starts spiraling to the ground. You cup your hands and manage to catch him, bringing him closer for inspection. Yep, passed out again. You think this might've been a bad idea. 

You nudge him every now and then, as gently as possible with the tip of your finger. He remains unresponsive, even when you speak. An uneasy feeling builds in the pit of your stomach as the minutes pass. Your senses and motor skills are much more advanced than a human's, which allows you to detect the return of slight movements. A wave of relief washes over you when he groans and opens his eyes. 

He gets his bearings, looks up at you, and is starstruck. He seems shocked that it even worked, and in awe of your stature. Then he's ecstatic, throwing himself at you and hugging your nose. You make an awkward squeak. Fuck, he's so happy. You're so happy. You celebrate by completely obliterating the concrete wasteland. 

Over the next several years, you proceed to royally unfuck the planet together. 

When you've done enough and are ready for the next step, he admits that he doesn't think he can physically handle it. That's fine by you, really. You're having fun just dicking around in your sandcastle kingdom. He hesitantly informs you that he has something better in mind. You end up fusing and learning how to use his powers, and you get off to saving the world.

 

 


End file.
